


Wild Wolves should beware White Swords

by WindyWords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Arthur is conflicted, F/M, Not a massive fan of Rhaegar, Tower of Joy, should be pretty fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyWords/pseuds/WindyWords
Summary: Starks melt when they go South of the neck. A common phrase, but the years before and during Robert's rebellion proved it true enough. Lyanna Stark was stolen away by false hopes and promises. But in the Tower, there wasn't only one damsel in distress. Ser Arthur Dayne wasn't kidnapped and taken from his family, but he had impossible duties to fulfill. In Dorne, no one gets a happy ending.





	1. Brandon

It was Jarek who came back first. Not his sister, who could outride any man in Winterfell, but a young man who’d not sat a horse for any amount of time until the day they left for Riverrun. That was the reason Brandon held the mug to his mouth like some sort of halfwit. His father hadn’t noticed, but he would soon. He’d certainly notice when Brandon shot to his feet and spilt his drink all over the future Lord of Riverrun. Rickard’s men stared at him; some reaching for their own blades, others merely glancing in the direction that the young lord stormed off in. The Northmen were used to the hysterics of Brandon Stark, but for his betrothed’s family and sworn shields, it was enough to raise an eyebrow over.

Other’s began to notice, notice the way Brandon’s breath laboured with each frantic step towards the man on the horse. Even the dumb beast had reason to be scared of a Stark on the warpath, and the squires struggled to hold the horse still. No, not just any dumb horse, it was Lyanna’s horse. The one he’d given her for her birthday. He remembered Barbrey picking it out for him, the finest in her stables and then they’d made love… fucked, for the first time and there had been blood in the straw and now there was blood on the saddle, and more coming out of Jarek’s arm, but that hardly stopped Brandon caring when he wrenched back the boy's wrist.

“Where _is_ my sister?”

It was guttural, more of a grunt than a vocalisation, but a thumb in the the man’s stab wound served to get the meaning across. A squire, more of a boy than a man, tried to tug at Brandon’s arm, but then he swung his hand back against the lad hard enough to send him reeling. After that, no one bothered him.

“There was no boat… across the God’s Eye, so we came back early and then... “

And then, Brandon didn’t know what had occurred next, but he felt his father's strong hands grasp his shoulders and haul him back. He didn’t have to look to see his father behind him; yes, the fact that he was strong enough to yank a furious Brandon back was hint enough, but if anything it was that Jarek’s pain filled eyes had grown wide with real fear.

“Martyn, escort my son back to the tavern.”

His father’s voice was clipped and terse, no different from always, yet Brandon could hear the worry in his tone. It was faint, masked by years of practice, but it was the same tone that Rickard Stark had used to tell Brandon his mother wouldn’t wake up. The same he'd used to tell Lyanna about her betrothal, and when he'd sent Ned off to rot in the Vale. For that reason, Brandon allowed himself to be dragged back into the dingy tavern.

The next thing he knew, Brandon was sat back at the table, as if the last few moments had just been a bizarre dream. But Martyn Cassel was talking softly to him, in the same soothing tone of voice he used when Benjen lost a fight. Or perhaps when little Lyanna fell off of her horse.

_Lyanna…_

He looked up at Martyn, with wide, frightened eyes, feeling as pathetic as that Baelish boy must have. If he only had a sword in his hand, then he could have laid waste to everyone who tried to keep him from finding Lyanna. If he had a sword, then he wouldn’t have had to have been sent back inside, like a scolded child, in front of everyone. After a moment, Brandon realised he was biting his lip, like Lyanna used to and Ben still did. Soon he was aware of a sound other than Martyn’s soft words, an irritating, rapping noise. Martyn was drumming his fingers on the table, he realised, and his signet ring was colliding with the hard wood with each motion. It was an unusually empathetic moment for Brandon, when he realised that the Cassel was worried as well.

_She’s my sister. Not yours._

It irritated him, without any real basis, but Lyanna was his sister to worry about. No one else could possibly be as concerned as he was.

Hours later, or at least what felt like it, his father came back. With one look, he sent Martyn away, before sitting opposite Brandon.

“Stop shaking.” His father said, after a weighty pause.

Despite himself, Brandon felt a hot flush of anger, feeling like a little boy once more, facing one of Rickard Stark’s famous scoldings. All but perfect Ned had ended up standing with bowed heads in front of their father at some point. Lyanna included. Brandon made a conscious effort to stop shivering like a child; he sat up straight, finding a childish glee in the fact his father had to look up to meet his eyes.

“Prince Rhaegar stole Lyanna.” Rickard Stark was never one to mince his words but he measured them carefully, like Ned did. Ned was more his father’s son than Brandon was, Ned would have married Catelyn Tully without question, Ned would not have half killed that little Baelish boy. Brandon knew his father was staring at him, waiting for the expected outburst, but right now, the wolf blood’s fury was still.

_Ours is the fury._

Like the house that Lyanna had refused to be part of, but if Brandon Stark couldn’t fight his betrothal, than Lyanna certainly couldn’t. He’d told her that, the day he met them on their way to Riverrun, she’d come crying to him, and he always felt a certain stab of pride that it was Brandon she chose, not father, or little Ben. He’d soothed her tears and hid his own, and told her that it would not be so bad, little sister. But then Brandon hadn’t believed himself either; with each grudging “My Lady” towards Catelyn Tully, when he’d have killed any number of men to be riding with Barbrey Dustin. Ned would have told Lyanna it was their duty, and that Robert was a fine man. He’d have called her Lya and given empty words.

But not empty promises though, Ned always kept his promises.

After a moment, Brandon realised his father was still waiting, still watching for some sort of reaction. It was that realisation that prompted the anger to build up, suddenly once again, and without warning.

“I'll kill him.” He said softly, his words distorted, “I’ll crack his silver head open and send his father his ruby heart.”

Brandon heard the crack before he felt it, felt the sting of his father’s hand against his cheek. It wasn’t the first time his father had laid a hand on him, but it was the first since Harrenhall.

“You will not, _boy.”_ His father snapped, raising his voice at a greater volume than he’d heard in awhile, “You will not touch Prince Rhaegar without my leave.”

“She’s your _daughter!_ That’s my sister he’s… he’s…” Brandon’s voice broke; today seemed the day for him to act like a little boy once again, he was no maiden, but still, the words stuck in his throat.

“Say it. Say it then, boy.” Rickard got to his feet, staring down at Brandon with eyes that revealed even their cunning father still had a drop of the wolf’s blood left inside of him.

Brandon didn’t say it. Instead he stared up at his father, who was breathing as hard as if he’d just come off the battlefield.

“Do you not think I’m as angry as you are? She’s my little girl, gods, how do I even go about telling Ben? And Ned, Ned will tell Robert in a moment, and who know’s what that fool will do?”

Rickard paused his outburst, looking down at his son, who was staring down at the table. The Lord of Winterfell sat back down, giving his son a surprisingly tender look.

“Promise me Bran, promise me you won’t do anything.”

Brandon Stark looked up at his father, resting his chin on his knuckles. His handsome eyes were as wide as they had been when he first sat opposite Martyn Cassel, so long ago. Brandon wasn’t crying, no, not yet. Brandon only ever cried if Lyanna did. If she broke, then so would he.

_And it took a lot to break Lyanna._

And gods, if that silver haired shit made his little sister cry, then there was nothing that could stop Brandon killing him, prince or not. But that was for later, and for now he’d play the political game, like a Southron lord. He’d keep his father happy, until he rode off to Kings Landing to give Aerys his son's head on a spike.

“I promise.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Jarek was brought before Brandon and his father, the pair of them still in that dingy corner of a Riverlands inn. The poor man was shaking; Brandon glanced over the bandaged wrapped tightly over the man’s elbow and the black bruise spreading around his eye socket. Was that _his_ fault? No, he’d hit the other boy, the one that tried to help him with the horse. Gritting his teeth, Brandon stared at the injured man, eyes narrowed and piercing.

“So tell me then, how did you fail to protect my sister?”

At Brandon’s growl, Jarek fell to a clumsy knee with his eyes to the floor. With the soldier’s eyes averted, Rickard placed a hand on Brandon’s arm as if in warning, before speaking with his characteristic sternness.

“Tell Brandon what you told me, Jarek.”

“We… we tried to get a boat across the God’s Eye, milord, but there were none. My lady, your… your sister was furious but she agreed to ride on back. We were just a day away from you when they sprang on us, milord, there was only ten of us and three… three score of them.”

“She’s five and ten. She didn’t need an army to visit the Isle of Faces.” Brandon snapped, although his father squeezed his arm tightly, forcing Brandon back into silence.

“It was the Kingsguard. It was the Sword of the Morning and the Crown Prince! None of us knew whether to fight back, and by the time we’d started to cut some of them down. They cut our horses from under us… other than the one’s we let loose before they could get to them. And by that time… milord, I… I saw Rhaegar drag Lyanna off her horse. And I tried my lord, I really did, but he rode off and I could just hear the horses screaming. It… it was so quick. And I was the only one not injured so I tried to come back here and I find… her horse, milord, and I rode through the day, and through the night. They took her at dawn, milord. At dawn. It was only just dawn.”

The man had grown incoherent throughout his tale, but Brandon had picked up the gist of it. His knuckles were white, and tingling with need to hit something, anything. Rickard had been clutching his arm to the point of pain, yet Brandon felt nothing. His father released the grip on his arm slowly, as if he had only just realised he was clutching it as well.

“You did well, Jarek. Go find the Maester, ask him for milk of the poppy.” Rickard spoke with the voice of a lord, a voice that Ned had started to mimic. Brandon had never been able to separate Brandon the man and Brandon the future lord, and now it seemed he couldn’t separate Brandon the brother from them either. Rickard Stark looked closely to his son now, as Jarek limped on away,

“Rhaegar was with Whent men.” He paused again, taking his time, “We’ll continue to Riverrun, and you can wed Catelyn Tully whilst her father goes to Harrenhall.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Brandon moved to interrupt, before his father spoke again, with more force this time.

“I will write to Aerys to control his son. He’ll not stand for this, Dorne will not stand on another slight on Elia’s honour. Not after the business at Harrenhall.”

_Ah, father. What do you know of the business at Harrenhall?_

Ben wouldn’t have told their father, and neither would have Lyanna. Ned, Ned might have done, but little Ned went back up to the Eyrie and he’d have not dared to entrust the message to a maester. The little crannogman, maybe, but Lyanna had sworn him to secrecy, and besides, he had secrets of his own he wanted to be kept too. No, their father knew nothing of the events at Harrenhall.

“Father, the King is mad. He’ll do nothing.”

“He may, but a letter is more likely to get your sister back then you hacking off the prince's head.” He spoke calmly enough to Brandon, but his grey eyes seethed.

“Robert won’t keep his temper.”

“Then I won’t tell him.”

“Ned can’t keep a secret from him.”

“Then I won’t tell Eddard either.”

That made Brandon pause, his mouth slightly open in disbelief. How could his father even contemplate not telling Ned? How could Hoster Tully know about Rhaegar kidnapping Lyanna to gods knows where to do gods know what to her, but Ned couldn’t? He scarce heard his father continue,

“With luck, your sister should be back in time for your wedding. In what state, I don’t know, but she’ll be back.”

It didn’t feel so long ago that Brandon believed every word that came out of his father’s mouth but now he’d learnt that even a Stark lied. And if his father could, then so could he,

“I’ll marry Catelyn.”

With a nod, Rickard Stark got to his feet, “I know it’s hard Bran, I know.” Brandon Stark merely inclined his head, appearing to be lost in thought. Now he had a plan, he could cope. It was like a fight, and Brandon was the best swordsman in the North, he knew how to win fights. He’d write to Ned, then ride down to King’s Landing with his friends. Brandon would call to the King’s better nature, and a shamefaced Rhaegar would be dragged out to face Brandon in combat. And then Lyanna would come home. And then… then they’d find a way out of their respective betrothals, and perhaps Ned would come home, and then he and Ben and Ned and Lyanna could ride beyond the wall, and go on a proper adventure. Yes, that was a plan.

Brandon smiled, it was going to be like one of those songs Lyanna loved so much.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur hated the Riverlands.

Arthur hated the Stark girl. And right now, Arthur hated Rhaegar Targaryen.

Even with the rain cascading down the front of his helmet - a worn iron thing, so different from his glimmering Kingsguard helm, but then Rhaegar wanted his fool's errand to go unnoticed. As if it would go unnoticed, with half a dozen dead Northmen floating in the God’s Eye. And even Robert Baratheon would notice that his betrothed had disappeared. But still, it was his duty to serve Rhaegar.

_I am supposed to serve Elia too._

But thinking of the many Arthur was meant to protect was a road he did not want to travel. Not now, when his only company was Rhaegar the noble fool and the little Stark girl.

Not that they’d notice Arthur; when Rhaegar had his hands wrapped around the girl as they rode - the girl who had dodged Arthur on horseback with surprising skill, but for some reason Rhaegar refused to let her have a horse of her own. Arthur looked at them occasionally, out of the corner of his eye and under the pretence of flicking the water pooling in the rim of his helmet out of the way. The girl wasn’t visible, dwarfed under the coat that Rhaegar had covered her shoulders with, but her head was down, more focused on the neck of the bay horse than the road ahead. Rhaegar, somehow still looking a prince in his merchant’s clothes, had his chin rested on her shoulder as rode. He looked a fool, Rhaegar did, slouched over. Every so often, he’d nuzzle her neck, or where it would be under the folds of the purple cloak.

He’d been doing that since Oswell went back to Harrenhall, to try and stall Lord Tully when he and Stark inevitably rampaged through the Riverlands to get the girl back. They had been lucky, almost two weeks had gone past since the skirmish without meeting anyone, and within a few days they’d reach the Gold Road. Unless they met the forces of the North, or found that Robert Baratheon and his vanguard had charged up to meet them. Arthur’s route was a good one; longer than the one that Rhaegar had wanted to take, but the Kingsroad would be death for the pair of them, Crown Prince or not.

The wind was pushing the rain back into Arthur’s face now, and his dun horse had his ears flat against his neck in distaste. It would be another night in the open, around a fire that would inevitably fail to light in this weather. It was another solid hour of trudging along in the driving rain, before Arthur spotted a likely clearing. Rhaegar made much flourish of lifting the girl off of the horse, an arm around her waist and Arthur had to hide his distaste by turning to the task at hand.

Rhaegar was useless at aiding with the camp, and usually sat and read the stupid books he insisted on heaving with him everywhere, but the rain was too much for reading, and the silver strings of his harp would swell. So instead Rhaegar sat and sulked. Even the Stark girl was more useful than he was, as she walked up to Arthur of her own accord, with a handful of dry sticks. Although Arthur smiled warmly at her when she handed them to him; or as warmly as he could given the circumstances, she didn't smile back. She wasn’t shy, no, more cautious. Like a wild animal that suddenly stops out of reach of the hunter's spear. He often caught her looking at him, not with lust like half the girls he met did, and more than a few boys, but more carefully, thoughtful. Or maybe she just hated him, afterall, he did cut down her father’s men before her eyes.

_He deserved to be hated for most of the things he’d done, but the Sword of the Morning could kill a dozen infants and still have songs in his name._

With the fire underway and his spare cloak acting as a makeshift shelter, Rhaegar sat and opened his book. Ignored, the girl hugged her knees close to her chest and stared into the fire, occasionally glancing over to Rhaegar and getting a rare smile in return. Arthur meanwhile, got out the map he kept under his shirt. It was warm from his skin, and probably stank of sweat, but when he unravelled it the Stark girl looked over to him and spoke to him in the first time in days,

“Can I see?”

Her voice was soft, but with a certain strength to it that made Arthur hesitant to refuse.

“Of course, my lady. Would you like me to show you our path?”

She gave him a brief nod in return, before shifting slightly close to him in order to read it. Arthur spoke quietly, as he always did when Rhaegar read.

“We’ll move onto the Gold Road in a day or two. And then East to Lannisport, over the mountains. There, we’ll get a ship to Starfall.”

Arthur paused, looking vaguely in her direction. His tone had been civil, but even he had noticed the slight edge in his voice at the mention of his home.

“How long?” She said after a moment, her eyes on the map, not on him. She may not have known the ancestral home of the Daynes, the Starks probably taught their daughters how to fight of wildlings instead of basic geography.

Or more likely she just didn’t care about him. That stung, as modest as Arthur tried to be, he was well aware how boys wished to be him.

Fools.

“A while. Two, three moons perhaps?” He was cautious, he didn’t know how much Rhaegar had told the girl through their illicit correspondence. Or how he’d convinced her to go along with such a foolish plan. Or what he inevitably wanted from her.

“And then?”

“Then Dorne, my lady. The mountains will be to your taste. You’ll have a horse perhaps, and hunt if that’s your wish.”

Arthur tactfully left out any mention of having to bear Rhaegar’s bastards. Or that the riding would most likely be under heavy guard.

“And I won’t have to marry Robert?”

Ah, that was the issue at hand here. Whenever he talked to her, she sounded wise beyond her years, but now Arthur heard the touch of fear in her voice. She was a child really. Arthur tried to keep his face as still as he always did, but he could recall Ashara at this age all too easily. Gods be good that Rhaegar would wait before making a woman of this girl.

He glanced down to Lyanna, but for a moment, and saw her eyes were narrowed, not waiting for an answer, but _daring_ him for one.

“No, my lady.”

After that, there was silence from the both of them, though she kept the map till she fell asleep, her eyes drifting more North each time she gazed at the goatskin. She looked even younger asleep, and in an uncharacteristically thoughtful move, Rhaegar placed a folded cloak under her head. The Prince fell asleep soon after that, with an arm carelessly across her shoulder. So Arthur kept watch, as he’d done on the nights since Oswell left.

The fire was warm though, and the rain on the cloak above him had quietened down to a soft patter. Arthur was fond of the rain, after years of scorching Dornish summers. Princess Elia liked it too, or at least she used to, when the two played in the Water Gardens together. Perhaps she’d got bored of the rain now she lived on Dragonstone.

Though thinking of Elia hurt, especially with the Stark girl curled up asleep beside him. And so did thinking of Ashara. But none of them hurt like screams behind an oaken door did.

He was tired. Arthur slept in the saddle, like he’d taught little Jaime Lannister to do, but it was hardly a soft feather bed with the sound of the sea in his ears.

Arthur was so very tired.

Of Rhaegar, of the road, of the girl, of the King.

Of everything but the rain in fact. Even Ashara wrote less and less the longer he spent away from Dorne. He’d seen at her Harrenhall, _everyone_ had seen her at Harrenhall and he’d helped her when she got lost on the way back from Stark’s tent. She was his sister, after all, and even if she’d been up all night doing what he’d been forbidden to do, he had a duty to protect her.

But Arthur was struggling to keep up with his many duties these days. And with that, he spent the rest of the night in a state of silence, pale blue eyes reflecting the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and I hope you like how I wrote Arthur, I'm planning on swapping between him and Brandon, probably with a few of Lyanna's and Ned's too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Christmas present for you all, I found this deep in my google docs, and inspiration struck! I hope I've worked on my Lyanna in this chapter - one thing I've always struggled with is why a supposedly independent young girl would put her family in such difficulty.

It was dark. She’d watched the night grow, painfully slowly, in the North the dark always came quickly, accompanied by the chill. But truly it was dark now; the fire that they’d made in the damp earth had long sputtered out. Beside her Lyanna could feel the slow movements of Rhaegar as he breathed. His breaths were slow and steady, in stark contrast to the fluttering in her heart and against her throat. Arms and legs were free to move; she'd heard the knight telling Rhaegar they should bind her, at least until they were out of the Riverlands. He told Rhaegar that she'd _attacked him._ That wasn't true. Shed seen the knight hurting her father's men and no, it wasn't meant to be like _that_ so she'd flung herself at him. At least before Rhaegars hands held her back. Her eyes were not yet open, not properly at least, just enough for the light - or rather lack of it - to come through.  
When she opened her eyes properly, still slowly, everything _must_ be done slowly. Brandon had taught her that. He said that the hunter stayed still, that they measured everything, even their breathing, with caution. Although she doubted that Bran was ever patient enough to wait for anything.  
Lyanna promised herself she’d count to ten tens and ten again before moving, but she was too like Bran for that, and instead she slinked her legs out from under her when she reached nine hundred. She knew where Rhaegar was sleeping, and she’d measured the distance from there to Arthur in her head when they’d settled down in the night. It was four steps.

_Brandon could do it in two._

And she knew where the map was. Night after night she’d asked to see it, and she knew where Arthur kept it better than the back of her own hand. Getting to her feet would be loud, so she settled on one low step after another. Rhaegar was still quiet, still breathing, still asleep. She was glad about that; after all, she didn’t want him to know what she’d done. 

_Lyanna supposed she loved him. Perhaps it was love._

She didn’t care about what the knight thought of her. He was the one who had killed her father’s men. Rhaegar had promised no one need die, and yet they came too early, before she’d agreed to sneak apart from the party and meet him. Rhaegar had consoled her, and promised that he’d make it right, and that he’d have the bodies sent back to the North.   
Bodies were better than nothing. But still. Without realising, she’d crossed the four small steps to where the knight lay sleeping. Everything was easier if you didn’t think about it too hard. Steal the map, get on a horse, ride back… 

_Back to where?_

North. Her heart ached to go North; even as she crouched next to the sleeping form of the Kingsguard, her breath steadier than she’d believed it could be. One hand reached to touch his shoulder, the other moving to brush aside his shirt. He was warm, a face creased in a slight frown, but still, he looked younger asleep. Lyanna tilted her head slightly, trying to see some similarity of between the knight and what she remembered of his sister. There was not much resemblance. There was none of the laughing eyes, or the glamour that Ashara had given off like a perfume with every step.

He exhaled lightly, enough for Lyanna to take a swift gasp of breath. Her hand lingered on his shirt, her eyes on where his would be if he only just opened them. The knights eyelashes were blonde, like Rhaegar's. They remained still however, even as he breathed evenly and remained still. Cautiously, she pushed his shirt aside, just enough so see the faded corner of the map. This was the worst part now, and she’d have to be quiet, so quiet. Inch by inch she tugged on the corner of the map. The sound of the goatskin seemed painfully loud as it dragged across his chest. A horrible thought struck her, with her back so long against Rhaegar, that he may be standing behind her.

When Lyanna turned, her hair whipped against the back of her neck. It could do with a brush, and a wash. So could the rest of her clothes to be honest. Her prince still slept, huddled in his simple cloak. _His_ hair was soft, piled up in mounds of silver. It shone in the moonlight, like beaten silver, or the glimmer of Brandon’s armour. Keeping her eyes on Rhaegar, she tugged the map free from its constraints, until it was firmly in her hand. Only then did she turn back to Arthur.

_Blue eyes._

were open now. Lyanna Stark stifled a scream. She found she could not scream, or move, or talk for that matter. She could only stare at him, and him at her. The knight's eyes were softer she remembered. Perhaps it was the sleep. All of a sudden, she realised she was still clutching the map. He made no move towards her, and hours seemed to pass. His chest rose and fell, whilst Lyanna’s felt like it had stopped forever.

_Would it be easier if it did?_

His lips parted, and before Lyanna could even scream, or better yet think of a good reason for Rhaegar - the man struck her as so gullible, like most handsome men - they moved. She’d never knew if he’d whispered or merely mouthed what came out next:

“What would you do?” 

_What would she do?_

She could ride off into the night, and if by some miracle she found a holdfast, they’d never believe she was who she said she was. Starks were not Targaryens, and any clever girl with northern features could claim her name. So it would have to be Riverrun, and that would involve going past Harrenhal, and she had heard the Dornish knight tell the Riverlander one to go there. And if, just if she got to Riverrun and found father, then what? Either she said she was kidnapped, and then everywhere she walked there would be whispers of _“spoiled goods”_ and rumours of silver haired, grey eyed babies smothered in their cribs. 

Or she’d say she went willingly, and the North would hate her, father would think her a fool. Ben wouldn’t understand, and Brandon would rage but Ned, 

_oh Ned,_

would look at her with those sad eyes and turn his face away, and that would hurt the most. And then what, a lifetime birthing black haired giants and getting fat, pretending to smile whilst Robert danced with the latest maid, and the nine months later having to discreetly place a squalling babe as far from Storms End as possible. And that was only if they were low born. A noble babe would live at court, and train with her own children, and there’d be whispers that maybe they should be the heir. After all, Lady Baratheon ran off with a prince once you know, at least we _know_ that he's the Lords son.

He looked bored, and that angered some part of her, the wild part that she and Brandon shared. She wanted to run off, to spite that glazed look in his eye. But the Ned part of her, the sensible part, relented. The map felt heavy in her hands. The knight made no movement towards it or her. All of a sudden, propelled by what instinct she didn’t know, Lyanna turned and strode back, as if she was crossing the great hall in Winterfell. She lay down once more, but this time with a map clung to her pounding chest. Arthur was still watching her, his head turned to one side. She expected him to take it from her, take away her small act of defiance.

Instead his eyes twinkled in what may of been a smile.


	4. Chapter 4

A week or two later, when they were five days from Lannisport, they passed a travelling lordling and his entourage. One and a half score of servants, a wayn pulled by two mules, and fifteen men at arms with halberds. Eight knights, or thereabouts, most of their arms unrecognisable to Arthur, little more than smallfolk, most of them, trailed after the lord like dogs. There were the blue Bettley beetles on one shield, belonging to a knight that seemed a day out of squirehood; another a hulking beardless, brute of a boy who carried no shield, and who’s yellow tunic seemed to burst from him. The lordlings court seemed small to what Arthur was used to. A Dayne of the Torrentine had a train longer than this, and when the King used to leave the Red Keep, their baggage train tore up the road into clouds of dust for miles and miles. When he saw the crimson and gold lions splattered across every scrap of fabric the lordling wore or carried, he was confused.

Lannisters were known for their pride, the old Hand, little Jaime, none would deign to have few many accompany him.

When they crossed anyone on the roads, even a smallfolk boy driving his pigs to market, Arthur’s hand went for Dawn. Even Rhaegar, with his urge for secrecy, had seen the sense in bringing the sword with them. It had been better when they’d had the Whent men with them, but they left with Oswell when they’d left the immediate danger of being near Riverrun. It was not secret, travelling around the Riverlands with a northern maiden and a score of men, but it had felt safer. But Rhaegar ordered Oswell to take the men back, and what the Crown Prince demands, the Crown Prince gets. 

It was partly for the girls sake, he thought, in the days after the attack she’d glared at anyone who came near her, and stayed awake at night with watchful eyes. She’d shunned even Rhaegar, who’d charmed her with his letters. It seemed that killing her father’s men had ruined their plan, but when it was just the three of them, and after days of Rhaegar charming her, and apologising, and telling her how free she’d be in Dorne, how they could travel around the free cities, that Arthur no longer felt that he ought to tie her up at night.

“Where are you headed, sers?” The lordling pulled to a stop. Fair curls, an easy smile, green eyes that broke hearts. A Lannister then, even if he lacked the wealth.

Rhaegar was starting to see this as a game now, and having his arms around a girl most of the day seemed to build up his arrogance more. Even now, he spoke casually., “Lannisport, my lords.”

They were meant to be posing as a travelling merchant, his wife and the hedge knight that they’d hired for protection but Arthur doubted that Rhaegar had ever met a merchant in his life, certainly not a mercenary. Rhaegar was a tourney knight, nothing more. He knew only glorified war. His arrogance, his hubris meant that when the lord offered to travel with them, for the lady’s sake, he instantly accepted.

“I am Ser Damion Lannister.” He was young, the little lord, in his twenties. The hedge knights were introduced in turn, no one of notice, but Arthur made an effort to remember their names. The Bettely was of an age with him, but with a boys smooth faced and called himself Ser Jon. The big boy in yellow did not speak, but Damion, announced him as a Sandor Clegane, a boy of eleven, in service to the Lord Paramount.

When he turned his head to the side, his young horse riled by the scents of strangers and in need of comfort, burns sliced across Clegane’s face like stained glass, hues of reds and plums with the odd burst of white bone. 

Damion, did not linger long on discussing a lowly squire, “We are on our way to Casterly Rock. Lord Paramount Tywin, my kin, he was knighted by my grandfather you know, Jason Lannister? Died at Bloodstone, leading the charge against the Blackfyres.”

Damion Lannister seemed to like the topic of his illustrious family. 

“My second cousin, Jaime, we used to train together. There was a tourney at Deep Den, did you hear of it on your travels? In honour of my betrothed’s name day, not as grand as the one at Harrenhall, I expect you’d have heard of that one. The mad King himself showed up! I took a few ransoms, broke five lances against Ser Brackens.”

By now, they were a mile down the road and had been travelling steadily, the Lannister lords chatter almost in perfect time with their horses hooves. The three of them stopped listening at once at mention of Harrenhall, and two ashen faces turned to Arthur,

_As per usual_

looking for help. Lyanna had been keeping hidden, wrapped up in her cloak, extending no more than pleasantries. Her accent, noticeable, had not been remarked upon. Even Rhaegar was uncharacteristically subdued, making little eye contact as he spoke, and when he did look, it was dancing eyes over towards the Clegane boy with the burn. They could not look more guilty if they tried.

“Ser Aaron?”

It took Arthur a moment to remember his alias. And that Damion had asked him a question.

“Your arms, I’ve never seen them before. Where did you say you were from?”

Arthur’s shield had been bought off the back of a wagon, pine and iron, painted blue with three silver stallions prancing across the field.

“The Marches, my lord.”

“Our side, or the Dornish?” 

“Our side, my Lord. I served the Dondarrion’s this year past.”

By then, Damion had lost interest. The Bettely was engaging Rhaegar in a one sided conversation about his planned trip.

“So Gerion, you buy a ship in Lannisport, where next?”

“Uhh… Lys. I’m originally from Lys.”

At least he had the sense to somewhat justify his eyes and hair. But this stilted conversation. What was wrong with him?

With the hedge knights and the lordling distracted in their gentle teasing of one of the maids, Lyanna talking quietly, somewhat urgently with a plump, matronly cook, Arthur felt that it was safe to ride up to Rhaegar and hiss that very question in his ear.

“The Clegane boy. I knighted his brother, remember? And if they were all at Harrenhall, they would have seen…” 

What was next was left unsaid. Lyanna and Rhaegar, the scene at Harrenhall would be imprinted on everyone's faces. Barely having to think, Arthur brought to mind Lyanna’s cautiousness, her hesitating manner at taking those flowers. One of Elia’s maids had been weeping, her sobs the only sound in all of Harren’s mess of a castle. Robert Baratheon and Brandon Stark practically ripping the stand to pieces, held back only by Lord Stark, who’s icy chill was worse than any adolescent fury. Aerys’s impassiveness was worst of all, his nonchalance at his son single handedly shredding the one sensible diplomatic move that Aerys had ever made.

“We need to go.” Rhaegar hissed with such intensity, the Clegane boy looked over his shoulder at them.

“A few days,” cautioned Arthur, quelling the boy with his smile, “Nothing more. He's already promised to help to conscript a ship for us, and gold lions have some sway. No matter how lowly the lord wearing them. Besides, if we leave now we look like renegades, like we have something to hide.”

Rhaegar nodded. His eyes, were 

_Rhaella’s eyes_

too blue, too purple. He'd donned a sapphire cloak today, leeching some colour out of his eyes. He'd need to play the part of a merchant, a foreigner. 

_Let him show off._ Arthur thought grimly, _It's all he ever does._

The night drew late. Evening rolled into twilight in a gentle symphony of birdsong, a brief crescendo of light before the dark. But even the longest of sunsets fades into night, and when darkness truly fell the pavillions had been set up and a fire underway.

In comparison to the gaudy lions, the sail cloth that Lyanna and Rhaegar (if he even slept) would bed down in, looked like a dying tomcat. On closer inspection of the Lords tent, the lions were painted, rather than sewn in cloth of gold, and there was heavy patchwork, scarlet fading into pink. Something that was once great, fading into a mockery of itself. Rhaegar Targaryen saw the irony too, a Lannister with a pink tent was no less shameful than a dragon prince with no dragon, and he buried himself in his books with renewed vigour.

It was down to Lyanna and Arthur to charm the company, with Rhaegar cowering in his tent, shielded by ramparts of ink and vellum, moats of leather bindings and burning cauldrons of knowledge. The northern girl spoke softly, sweetly, a tender hushed voice. But she kept making excuses to leave, to talk to that damn cook again.

Perhaps Arthur's eyes followed her too closely, too often, but the conversation turned to ribald jokes about keeping ladies with scholarly husbands entertained. He joined in, though in all honesty, being one of the few Kingsguard who actually took their vows with any pride, he had little experience. His brothers were good men, true, and he loved them deeply, but Llewyn kept his paramour in the White Sword Tower itself. Arthur felt he owed his white cloak some honour.

Under the excuse of taking some air that wasn't charred flies or woodsmoke, he stepped over by the river. It wasn’t marked on his map, but it had been swelled by snow melts in the mountains. Not that the mountains had felt like they were thawing when the three had passed through. Rhaegar whined like a child nightly about the cold. Lyanna had said little, and complained even less. It was funny, how a little girl could deal with the odd spring flurry of snow better than a grown man. The weather was warm now, on the Gold Road, and Rhaegar sang more and often, or snatched wild flowers out of the side of the road as they passed for his Lyanna. Dimly, Arthur wondered if Rhaegar ever did the same for Elia.

_Of course he didn’t._

Rhaegar’s most romantic action towards Elia was naming a Queen of Love and Beauty. And he still chose someone else over her

“What do you want?”

Lyanna snapped him out of his thoughts, half hidden in the ferns and bushes. Her eyes burnt, burnt like wildfire

_no, not there don’t go there_

“Why do you keep wandering off?” As he spoke, Arthur knelt down besides the river bank. Sandy mud was already clinging to his boots, certain to stain his cloak, and already chilling his knees. Still, the heat from the fire still stuck to his cheeks, and he could feel the soot in his eyes and hair. Cupping his hands, plunging them into inky black waters, fast moving current hidden beneath the quiet surface, he washed his face.

“I…”

Turning to look at Lyanna, his eyesight blurred by the water, he waited a moment, but she gave no further response. Cupping his hands again, raising them to his mouth, taking a sip.

“How do you know it’s safe?”

Arthur finished his drink, throwing the rest of the water over his face, “I’m Dornish. We know about water. Besides, it’s flowing.”

She stayed back from him, even though this was the longest conversation that they’d ever had, and the only one they’d had since she’d stolen his map in the dead of night, “Why do you keep talking with that woman?”

As Arthur spoke he glanced over his shoulder to the fire, a faint orange glow amongst the trees, ghostly silhouettes occasionally rising and flitting like birds.

“It’s not what you think… I’m not trying to…”

They left the word unsaid. A mutual agreement. To say it would be to name, and if they named what was happening 

_kidnapping, elopement, rescue,_

then they could never go back.

“Then what?” Arthur pressed, regretting it when he saw red spread across her cheeks for a moment, before she stiffened her chin, and jutted her head with the barest twitch towards the small pool that lay beneath the willow. A few, spare sheets of fabric gently swayed in the current, suspended by a stick propped between two trees.

“I started… bleeding.”

Arthur, taking a moment to process started to mutter, “Oh, oh I see” turning his head away as he did so, “Sorry, privacy I ought to go… so long as you’re alright.”

She smiled faintly. “I’m fine. Not… the first time that this has happened.”  
Arthur, still facing away, his posture relaxed somewhat. Not much, from coiled snake to iron rod, but it was something, “Still, I’m sorry.”

“Would you, would you mind not telling Rhaegar?” She paused, “Please.”

The knight turned back over his shoulder to look at her, nodded briefly and earned a tentative smile in return. He could count the amount of smiles she had given him on half a hand. With that he walked back through the green-blue shadows of the ferns, back to the sparks that added a thousand stars to the velvety sky.

**Author's Note:**

> So first fanfiction I wrote, so I'd really appreciate reviews if you felt like it, but mainly I hope that you didn't think it was too terrible and sort of liked it. I'll post the next one in a couple of days.


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